In Want of a Friend
by Calathiel of Mirkwood
Summary: AU General Sarov succeeds in adopting Alex. For Alex, life takes a sudden downturn. For one lonely school boy, it just may have saved his life.


**A/N**: I don't own Alex Rider and affiliated characters. Just Lionel, Peter, and the school boy.

I've been working on this particular title on and off for a few years actually (pitiful, I know) but I'm finally pleased with the result. Enjoy!

**In Want of a Friend**

I hadn't meant to cause any trouble all those years ago.

Mum had sent me off for the day with a plastic wrapped peanut butter sandwich and a quick kiss. She said I was to be back at 7:15, precisely when her shift ended at the pub.

Years later, I would reflect that sending a child into the cramped streets of London's intercity was hardly a suitable daycare situation but my Mum had done her best, working shifts, often back to back, to keep our little apartment on the sixth floor heated and the cabinets stocked.

As I would also reflect, the group of children I attached myself to on those long, long afternoons was hardly of reputable means. Mum didn't know until much later that I was even of their acquaintance.

Perhaps it was better that way.

And then again, perhaps not.

That particular afternoon was one I will never forget.

By the plastic hands of the toy watch around my wrist, my curfew was three hours, twenty-seven minutes and…fourteen seconds away. Plenty of time for a hale young lad like myself to find a whole menagerie of mischief.

I trotted down the street, oblivious to the blare of horns and the coarse language of the drivers. My ears were used to such racket. I'd heard a few hours earlier that the group from school I'd befriended over summer holiday would be meeting at an abandoned lot a few blocks away for the afternoon for a round of football.

With nothing better to do and under the naive assumption that they would indeed play football, I made my way to meet them.

They had gathered on the corner of the lot, crowded into a tightly knit circle. Innocent as ever, I pushed my way through them, a wide grin on my face as my curiosity peaked. "Whatcha doing?"

"Back off, shrimp." Lionel, a taller boy and one of the more violent, threw a hand in my face and shoved me back.

Ingrained stubbornness kicked in and I pushed my way back into the ring. "Come on. Lemme see."

"What are you? Deaf?" The bully curled his hand into a fist and I might have returned home with a few bruises if it wasn't for Pete, the unspoken leader.

"Let him see, Lionel. He's just a kid. He's not going to do anything." Pete elbowed a few of his mates aside and a small niche was made for me to step into, the rest of the crowd falling back in place to encircle us.

A brass key, held in Pete's open palm, was the center of attention.

I remember the swell of disappointment in my chest. A key? I'd found more interesting things in the gutter. "That's it?"

"Idiot! What do you think this goes to? Your mum's china cabinet?" Lionel snarled.

"So what if it does?" I sneered back. Apparently being cheeky was hereditary in my family. "You're too chicken to do anything about it."

His upper lip curled and I wondered if my outburst was ill-timed. I'd be told many times over in life that I spoke too quickly, too recklessly.

"It's the key to that crazy Russian's place. Some bloke named Sarov." Pete intervened yet again. I don't know how many scuffles that school boy saved me from…

"Sarov…" I said, breathlessly. I hadn't a clue who they were talking about but if it fascinated them, it fascinated me. I should have heard the word 'crazy' and left then and there.

I didn't.

"Yeah, and if you don't scat he'll send his mad son out here to haunt your dreams."

"Lionel…" Pete scowled disapprovingly and we all turned back to staring at the key.

I look back now and wonder what I would have seen if I had been watching Lionel's face instead of the light reflecting off a simple brass key.

"Hey, scamp, bet you're too wimpy to use that key to open the old man's flat."

"I'm not!" I puffed out my chest, displaying all my eleven-year-old muscle for the teenager to cower before.

"Then do it!" Lionel snatched the key from Pete and pressed it into my hand, closing my fingers harshly over the cold metal.

And that was how it began.

A simple dare.

I could have walked away, told Lionel he should unlock the door himself, asked if we could play football already. But no, curiosity and the need to prove myself to the circle of eager faces answered for me.

"I will." I turned sharply on my heel and stomped towards the flat, ignoring the warning bells, whistles, and swirling red lights blaring in my skull.

"Lionel, what'd you do that for? He's just a kid!" Pete's voice sounded very far away as he protested.

Lionel's derisive reply was much louder. "He'll be alright. Bet the Russian isn't even home."

The gravel crunched under my shoes, echoing in time with my thumping heartbeat. The flat was the size of a penthouse really, the hedges manicured meticulously and a sleek Audi parked in the drive along the side of the building. Those were details I would remember later, details that could have prevented the whole mess.

I marched up the front drive, key growing damp between my fingers, and crossed the flagstone steps to the great front door. It looked heavy, deep carvings winding their way around a small pane of etched glass.

I inserted the key, glanced back, saw the encouraging nods, and turned the lock.

Trying the handle, the door gave way, and I saw an expanse of marble flooring and a massive staircase, gleaming with polish. I glanced back again, and the group cheered me on, whispering for me to continue my trek. Another time, I turned down a chance to elude disaster.

I had always thought my trainers to be quiet but the first step onto the perfectly cleaned marble floor practically shrieked as the rubber made contact. I cringed.

Nothing happened so I ventured a second, a third, a fourth. My courage had built and I loosed my grasp on the door handle. I had no plan, no objective, nothing but the goading of a bunch of bored school children.

The fourth step caused all the trouble. An alarm went off somewhere in the building and I froze, my breath clamming up and my muscles seizing. For weeks, I would berate myself for standing there like a tin man.

A second later hand closed down on my shoulder and I knew I was lost. I twisted to call for help from my friends and saw that they were scattering like a flock of pigeons, leaving me to my fate.

The hand belonged to a burly man in a crisp black suit. "This is private property, ребёнок."

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean any trouble."

He surveyed my rumpled jacket, dusty trainers, and worn trousers in a quick glance and I thought for a moment that I was safe until he saw my clenched fist and the glint of brass within it.

His fingers lifted my hand and harshly picked the key free. "Where did you get this?"

"I-I…" The panic that cloyed in my throat was like nothing I had ever felt. My eleven-year-old mind felt the pressure of loyalty and refused to let the condemning words escape my mouth. "I can't tell you."

"Wrong answer." His free hand clamped down on my shoulder and I felt myself propelled forward a step. I might have been taken away right there if it wasn't for a pair of footsteps.

"Krisnav, what is that racket?"

We both looked up to see a man in his mid-sixties enter the room. His face was lined with a grim frown. At the time I was unaware that I stood in the presence of one of the most powerful men in Europe and Asia, yet I still felt an unknown pressure settle on my chest.

His voice as he spoke again was heavily laced with a Russian accent. "What is he doing here?"

"He let himself in, Mr. Sarov. He had a key." The man in the suit lifted the key he'd taken from me.

"He had a key?" Mr. Sarov didn't appear to believe what he had heard. "And…where might he have gotten such a key?"

"He won't say. Says he can't tell me."

"Then you take him downstairs and you leave him there until he does." Mr. Sarov's eyes flicked down to his cufflinks as he adjusted them with precise care. "I have too many enemies to be careless."

"Yes sir." The man hesitated. "Sir?"

A dark eyebrow rose.

"What shall I tell the police? If they ask questions?"

"Tell him we haven't seen the boy. They will not question further."

"Yes sir." The fingers tightened on my shoulder and I was pushed to a door under the grand staircase.

"And Krisnav?"

"Yes sir?"

"I will not be disturbed today. Understood?" Mr. Sarov stared at me with his dark penetrating eyes.

"Yes sir." And then I was pushed away from those eyes and the oaken front door.

I have tried to clarify the times many times over, figure out how many hours passed, but to no avail. My watch's batteries chose that moment to breathe their last and the room I had been locked in had no window.

There was a cot shoved against the far wall and I tried to sleep. It wouldn't come. But while tossing and turning on the thin mattress I heard the crinkle of plastic and remembered the sandwich in my pocket.

Fighting tears, I sat on the floor and ate the peanut-butter smeared bread. Anger swelled within me and I envisioned a watermark on the cement floor as Lionel's face, stomping heartily on it a few times before sinking down, chest aching with suppressed sobs.

I wanted to go home. I wanted a real supper. Mum had promised me tomato soup and thirty minutes of cartoons before bed. Krisnav had told me that I could leave once I'd told him where I'd gotten the key. He said he'd even give me a nice fat roll with honey and butter on it. After an internal battle, loyalty won out by a hair and I remained locked away in some basement room, forgotten and alone.

A trio of light bulbs inserted in the ceiling flicked on abruptly at some point in what must have been the evening and the meager light allowed me to see the plain cement walls a little better.

I had almost drifted off into a restless sleep at the base of the old cot when I heard the lock turn in the door. I leapt clumsily to my feet, angry, frightened, hungry, and tired.

The door opened with a groaning squeal as the metal pins rotated. Krisnav, however, hadn't opened it. A new suited man had. He motioned to someone beyond my sight in the hallway and suddenly a young man with blonde hair was thrown in.

He skidded to a halt, bare feet catching on the stained floor and pulling the forced momentum back. His eyes whirled back on the door and he lunged, stopping just inches before the door slammed shut and scarcely missing clipping his nose.

Instead, he spat out a string of harsh Russian at the retreating footsteps behind the door. When his anger was verbally sated his shoulders dipped, turning back to the cot in the corner where I stood.

My fists went up, lips thinning as my focus narrowed to defense. I hadn't the scarcest clue as to what was happening but I wasn't going to be taken in like last time.

Surprise bled into the newcomer's bright blue eyes at the sight of a scrawny school boy. I'm sure I must have looked a sight with peanut butter smeared over one lip and tear stained cheeks.

A tense moment passed as the young man no doubt searched for the proper words. In that moment, I surveyed the new threat.

He was dressed oddly enough. A bow tie lay loose around his neck, soot and grime staining the smooth fabric of a tuxedo. His feet were entirely bare, coated in dirt and possibly blood. The mud was too dark to know for sure. His hair, at one point likely combed back respectably, was tousled, throwing an oddly young appearance to his features.

The image was preserved until I met his gaze. The thin veneer of confusion was easily shattered, perhaps because of my youth. His blue eyes were great yawning depths of pain and frustration. What he must have endured to have such a hounded look to those eyes…

I can only speculate as to his age. At the time it didn't matter, but on sleepless nights I wondered how old he could have been. If it wasn't for the haunted look to his eyes, I would have guessed sixteen or seventeen but the turmoil effectively aged him and I thought he could have been as old as twenty-two.

As it was, my young mind shrugged off the troubling questions and slowly dropped my defensive stance. Somehow, I knew he would not harm me.

A shutter seemed to close over the pain in his face, and I saw a clean-cut, well-educated young man before me. He pulled a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "I'm guessing you aren't one of the dinner guests."

I shrugged warily. "No."

He strode to the cot, an athletic, determined stride, and sank down almost gratefully on the thin cotton mattress. His gaze when it returned to meet mine was filled with a sort of dark irony and I felt a shiver travel up my spine. "I'm afraid they don't take very kindly to you if you don't have an invitation."

"I didn't mean to…" My voice dipped low and I felt a sulking frown creep over my face.

His eyes flickered and he sat up, elbows resting on his knees. "What do you mean? Didn't you intend to come here?"

"No."

"I see. I suppose this isn't exactly the Louvre." He ran a hand down his jaw. "Do you know what they want from you?"

I slid down to the floor, tears that I had been staving off all night returning with a stinging pain. My sleeve was raked across my nose in an effort to conceal the droplets. "My friends. They dared me to unlock the door."

"Your friends? From school?" His eyebrows knotted.

I didn't understand why he was taking such an interest but I still didn't feel threatened. Besides that I was tired, hungry. Loyalty I'd been maintaining so carefully all night caved away and I felt myself answering. "Yeah."

"Well, they're a rotten bunch of-"

If my mother had heard what he said next, she would have sent me to my room without supper. Since I was in a far worse position already, I let a squeaking laugh emerge from my throat.

He looked surprised but then he smiled and I felt myself smiling back. And oh, did it ever feel so good to smile.

He thrust a hand out in front of him. "I'm Alex."

We exchanged the pleasantries and for a short time I could forget that I was hungry and tired and frightened for my life. Because I had a friend in this nightmare.

"Did someone dare you to come in here?" I asked, uncertainly.

Alex was still for a long moment. "Not in a manner of speaking."

Perhaps it was the fact that I had a companion. Perhaps it was the boredom. I'm not sure really but I couldn't just let this go. I asked him if he had friends as cowardly as my own.

The response was hollow, as if the emotion had been torn right out. "I don't think I have any friends."

I played with the laces on my left trainer. They dragged in the dirt, no matter how tightly I tied them. Mum always said it was a wonder I hadn't smashed my nose right in tripping over them. "I could be your friend…if you wanted, that is…"

The expression he turned on me was very steady and very sad.

I felt the need to defend my offer. "Mum says I'm the best mate around."

The room went still and I went back to toying with my laces.

"I never knew my mum."

I looked up.

"She died when I was little."

"But your dad, you've got him, don't you?"

"I've got a man who calls me his son."

In the end, there wasn't much to say and maybe it was a merciful thing because the door whined open and the grim faced man from earlier looked in on us, his gaze settling on Alex.

"He's asking for you."

Alex looked far braver than I thought was possible in a situation. In fact, he looked rather unperturbed, face blank and eyes averted. "A shame the feeling isn't mutual."

Krisnav's face darkened and he spoke quietly in Russian.

For a moment, I thought Alex would continue to ignore the burly man but slowly he stood and took a hesitant step forward. The Russian seized the back of Alex's collar and yanked him towards the hallway.

"Try not to have too much fun without me, will you?" Alex called, flashing a wry smile over his shoulder.

The door slammed shut, and my "I won't" bounced back across the distance.

That night was probably the longest of my life. The room became chilly and not even my jacket could keep me from shivering. My stomach was filled with a dull ache and the peanut butter sandwich didn't provide enough crumbs for the pain to dissipate.

The sound of my mum's breathing only feet away in our one bedroom apartment would have lulled me to sleep on any other evening but that night I was without it. And even at eleven years of age, I found it hard to find sleep.

I was only aware that dawn had come when Krisnav yanked open the door, shot a glare at me, shoved a bowl of thin gruel across the floor, and I was left alone. I expected to be asked if I would tell where I'd gotten the key but he hadn't said a word.

My troubles were forgotten at one whiff of the breakfast. I wasn't given a spoon so I drank it, holding the bowl in the palms of my hands.

I had just finished and was dragging the back of my hand along my lips when the door opened a second time. Unconsciously, I scooted back. I didn't think I was going to be given a second helping of gruel, though I would have eaten it gratefully.

Instead, I saw Alex staring back at me. He looked different, dressed in a pair of slacks and a dress shirt. His hair was damp and he smelled of good, clean soap. Waving a hand, he stepped aside to provide a pathway for me. "Well, come on."

He was silent as we walked and I couldn't seem to get my tongue to leave the roof of my mouth but I followed him dutifully. After all, he was far preferable than my previous company.

We stepped out into the sunshine and I recognized the trimmed hedges from the front of the flat. It seemed an absurdly long time ago that I approached the front door with jeers ringing in my ears from school boys.

Alex didn't seem to notice how quiet I was. His face was pale and, while loosing a gate's latch, he flinched, his hand straying to his chest.

We stepped onto the street, morning traffic humming along in the distance. Alex's eyes flickered back to the flat and then to me. "Listen…" he seemed to struggle for words. Taking a deep breath, he finally said, "I've straightened everything out. You're not to speak of what happened here but they won't bother you about the key anymore. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"Not even your mum can know."

I nodded again, a strange sense of foreboding curling in my belly.

He looked searchingly into my face. "Alright. Now, go."

I hesitated only a second and then I spun on my heel and started to run.

"Wait." He had stepped after me so that when I turned he was still close and pressed a little figure into my hand.

"Take that to Royal and General Bank for me? Ask for Mrs. Jones." And then, he was walking behind the hedges and was gone, leaving me to stare at the golden sheen of a Tiger Woods statue as smaller than the palm of my shaking hand.

That was twelve years ago. My mother, once she'd finished sobbing hysterically and pressing me against her chest, never mentioned the night I was away and I was content to let her think I'd been lost at the park. I did try to get the Tiger Woods figurine to the Bank Alex had mentioned. They'd turned me away at the desk, saying that no Mrs. Jones worked there.

I saw Alex twice in secondary school, once on television and once in the newspaper and both times he was attending some political meeting with Mr. Sarov. He was always hustled away quickly, a horde of bodyguards pushing the press back and, I sometimes suspected, him in.

But I had no basis for my theory of his imprisonment other than one night spent locked away in a basement. And that could be explained away as an errant teenager being grounded. An unorthodox punishment, yes, but who was to criticize a foreign official's parenting style?

Years passed and I attended university, graduating with honors at nineteen. This was followed by several years in medical school. Upon my graduation, I was accepted to a prestigious surgical unit and began work there. It was then that I was approached by MI-6. Apparently they were in need of a new technology expert in the field of medicinal applications for their headquarters.

I accepted the position and from then on any hope of ever seeing Alex Rider again was lost. My days, and sometimes nights, were consumed with analyzing new gadgets for medical safety, researching new areas of expertise, and gathering reports for Alan Blunt, the organization's head.

It was during my third year there that I finally learned that a Mrs. Jones had in fact been employed there several years ago. I tracked down her address on an impulse and mailed her the little figurine.

I heard nothing in return, unsure if the package had even made its way to the right Mrs. Jones. Because, really, what young man knew the second-in-command at MI-6? The Mrs. Jones he spoke of was probably an elderly Aunt that spent the day knitting jumpers and feeding cats.

And so the matter passed from my mind. Not out of want but as I could not see a solution anywhere.

This morning, however, I was called to Alan Blunt's office. The lobby television was playing the news and photos of a funeral flicked across the screen. I couldn't catch a name before the elevator doors closed, only that it was a Russian official of some kind.

The elevator ride and walk were both short and in no time at all I was rapping my knuckles on the glass door to Alan Blunt's office.

"Come in." The voice was curt and pointed, as always.

"Sir, you called for me?"

"I did." He gestured to a chair and slid a file across his desk. "There is a special case I'd like you to take a look at."

I flipped through the pages. Several high definition x-rays of the chest cavity of a male, aged twenty-nine. Everything looked perfectly normal until I looked a little closer. Carefully placed beside the aortic artery was a small electronic device. Before I went any further I needed more information. "Do we have any specs on the device?"

"Unfortunately, no. We have a close match but our engineers think it's a different model, an earlier one perhaps." He slid another file of papers towards me, each page containing detailed sketch of a microchip as small as a penny.

"Can you remove it?" Alan Blunt's gray eyes locked with my own behind thinly wired glasses.

"Given the fact that it appears to be a GPS device of some kind, the risk is low if the patient is healthy. The placement is tricky but I believe if the patient's heartbeat was slowed, we should make it through the surgery without any damage to the artery."

"Excellent." Alan leaned forward and spoke crisply into the intercom. "Send him in."

Twelve years ago I would have been curious to see, presumably, my patient but that urge had been successfully sated and I would bide my time with another quick glance over the x-rays and specs before wondering as to the patient's identity. What was currently more puzzling was why a GPS device would be implanted so close to an essential artery. Without the proper tools and medical staff, removal could be deadly.

The door clicked open and footsteps indicated that the patient had entered the room.

"The prognosis is good, Alex. But then, you always had a streak of luck in you." Alan announced.

My head shot up, eyes already narrowed. Could it really be…?

Standing not two feet away was the blonde haired young man that I had met in the basement of Sarov's house. "Did you say…Alex?"

"That's right." His eyes flickered with confusion for an instant as he extended a hand.

I couldn't figure out how I knew that it was this same person and I couldn't very well spit how I knew him without sounding completely mental so I kept my shocked silence.

Mr. Blunt took charge of the conversation, unaware or choosing to ignore my response. I suspected the latter. "I must say, Alex," his voice was as crisp as ever, "Mrs. Jones would have been glad to see you. She…ah, she retired after your disappearance."

Alex raised an eyebrow.

"Difference of opinion on operation matters." He straightened a pen on the glass desktop before him. "Enough of that. One of our best medical staff," he gestured to me, "will be performing the procedure. He'll brief you on the details."

And the meeting was concluded. The next twenty minutes were spent explaining my proposed procedure for removal of the device in a smaller conference room across the building.

Alex was reticent and when he did choose to speak his questions were clear and thoughtful. He wanted to know estimated recovery times, exact medications, and what staff would be involved. Never once did he mention that he recognized me at all and I never brought the matter up. It seemed like a bad dream, something that had passed and was no longer a part of reality.

Twenty four hours later, I emerged from the procedure room, stripping the gloves from my hands and pulling off the surgical overcoat. Mr. Blunt was waiting by the observation glass and he motioned me to join him.

I did reluctantly, wanting to press the pads of my fingers against my eyeballs in exhaustion. I settled for scrubbing down my hands in the large sinks and doing as I was told.

"How is he?"

"Heart rate is 72 bpm and BP is 123/81. No major complications. The device was more deeply inserted than we originally thought but extraction was successful. I'd expect some bruising around his sternum but he should recover well."

"How soon would be able to leave medical care?"

I hesitated, unsure of what exactly I was being asked. "He should be under observation for the next 48 hours to keep the wound clean."

"If he were to return to field work, what would his expected return date be?"

I felt like an eleven year old again, watching the Russian take Alex away by the collar of his shirt. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"When would he qualify for field work?"

"At least 8 weeks for the wound to close over and set properly. I'd recommend closer to 16 for full physical capability."

Mr. Blunt nodded, his fingers tapping against his palm.

"Sir, if I may, are we sure he's a good candidate for a field agent position?" I thought of his rare appearances on the news.

"He was one of our best."

"Was, sir?" I felt the blood drain from my face.

"Assets like Alex Rider are not to be wasted." Mr. Blunt left the room, with the slap of polished leather shoes against linoleum.

I turned to the observation glass and the figures moving within and tried not to be sick.

I didn't have much time to think over the next few days. Reports and paperwork for various things had built up but late one night, when the office was empty, I filled a paper cup with the leftover coffee and entered the name "Alex Rider" into the database.

As a medical officer, I was not privy to many reports unless they specifically dealt with treatment but I had never seen a file that had so many blacked out and blocked spaces. Little to no information was available. I could gather that Alex had an uncle who had died when he was young. From there the files became more difficult to read until, around fifteen years ago, the documents changed from almost entirely blocked to observation reports.

One such report caught my eye…

_Subject tried to make contact at 2016. As per protocol, surveillance team retreated to fallback point. Subject was approached by POI-1702 and placed in restraints. Surveillance team requested permission to engage. Request denied. Subject returned to Location B. No further movement._

I felt my throat close and shoved my chair back from the cold glow of the computer screen. I jammed the power button and fled the office. Whatever was going on here was completely beyond ethical comprehension.

I took the following three days off to think and when I returned to MI-6 headquarters I had found a semblance of peace. I was informed the moment I entered the building that I had Mr. Blunt had requested my attendance at a meeting.

Feeling the smooth envelope in my coat pocket, I followed the aide to the now familiar office and found Alex Rider already seated across from Mr. Blunt. They both glanced up as I entered and found an empty seat near the desk.

Alex looked better than last I saw him, with color in his cheeks and his shoulders had relaxed some.

"As I was saying, we are quite pleased with your progress, Alex, as my colleague will confirm," Mr. Blunt continued. "Your recovery has been steady and you should be back to…romping the streets in no time."

"Then, why am I still here?"

"Well…we-that is-I had hoped you wouldn't be in such a rush to leave us."

Alex's voice was very steady. "You said that I wouldn't be obligated to you if I let you do the procedure."

"There is no legal obligations to this organization but your country-"

"Excellent." Alex turned, as if to go, but Mr. Blunt cut him off by saying, "Alex, we did what we could for you, diplomatically speaking, over the years. You must understand the stakes and the risk involved."

"Exposure of MI-6, you mean."

Mr. Blunt's eyelids thinned. "Exposure of potentially threatening information regarding governmental structure."

"As I said." Alex smiled darkly. "Exposure of MI-6."

"You still have a place here, Alex. Your uncle-"

"Don't!" He breathed out through his nose, eyes pressed shut and when he opened them they were sharp as flint. "Do not bring my uncle into this. This life…is not what he wanted."

"You would know, I suppose. Since he shared everything about his life with you."

Alex's hands curled shut and his previously loose shoulders tensed. "I'll see myself out, thanks."

"Alex, you have enemies. We can protect you here."

"Your protection kept me a prisoner of a megalomaniac for fifteen years. I'll pass." Alex wrenched the door open and stalked out.

"Alex!" But the younger man didn't turn, didn't even look back.

Mr. Blunt turned to me. "You are no longer needed."

"Brilliant." I pulled out the envelope and tossed it onto his desk. "I resign."

I caught up to Alex just as he left the building, eyes squinted against the morning sunlight. "Alex!"

He seemed annoyed. "If Blunt has sent you out here…"

"He hasn't. I've quit." I searched for the words, finding them difficult to grasp. "Listen, I'm sorry about what's happened to you…with Blunt and everything…"

Alex shook his head, hands deep in his pockets. "I should've known better."

"No, really, you see…I owe you."

He waited, confused.

"Fifteen years ago, I took a dare from a bunch of school boys and someone saved my life, I think. I sent along the figurine he gave me but the Royal and General said they didn't know any Mrs. Jones."

Alex was very still.

"I didn't ever get to thank him. If I ever met him…I guess that would be it. I'd want to say 'thank you'."

His head was low and he seemed to struggle with something but when his head lifted, his face was perfectly composed, hand outstretched like it had been all those years ago when he'd brightly introduced himself.

I took it and said, "Best of luck to you, mate."

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. "Try not to have too much fun without me, will you?"

I never saw him again. Once or twice I was tempted to look him up, see if a few old contacts had seen him, but I didn't. He had done his part, earned his peace. It didn't feel right to disrupt that.

I like to think that, wherever he is, he's found a family, someone he can call his friend.

**Fin.**


End file.
